


A Difference of Origin

by Iyrsiiea



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Original Inquisitor - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-08-16 07:15:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8092600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iyrsiiea/pseuds/Iyrsiiea
Summary: Instead of an Adaar, Lavellan, Cadash or Trevelyan, a different person came out of the Fade at Haven. A young man with his own dark origins.





	

Cassandra was displeased. Vehemently so. She had every right to be.

The light created by the Breach was so bright in the night sky it almost emulated a full moon. It’s sickly pallor colored the world in tones of green. It was by this light that the Seeker made her way to Haven’s Chantry, storming through the ramshackle camp that the remnants of those that had attended the Conclave had formed. Once inside, she went downstairs to the prison and entered the cell that contained the source of her displeasure: a thin, pale man lying comatose on a bedroll. Standing outside the cell was a templar, vigilantly watching the unconscious human and the two kneeling beside him. 

The elven apostate, Solas, turned to watch her enter and gave her a slight nod. “Seeker. There has been no change in the mark.”

“The patient, however, seems to be improving,” the healer, still turned away from her, grumbled. “Despite the limitations imposed.”

Cassandra sighed. The healer had made his point many a time, and she hers. “You know perfectly well why we imposed such limitations, Adan.” She gestured to the prisoner. “He is dangerous.”

“When he finally wakes, maybe, but right now he’s as dangerous as a mouse.” Adan muttered a bit more before continuing. “Speaking of which, I suspect he’ll be conscious by daybreak.”

“Truly?” That gave the Seeker pause. “We will have to increase the guard, then.” The chance to finally interrogate the prisoner was appealing, but security had to come first in her mind. There was no telling how much damage the prisoner could do should he escape.

Adan scoffed. “What, more louts to stand around and stare at me while I’m trying to work?” The healer shot a pointed glare at the templar guard, who ignored it.

“They are here for your protection, Adan.” Cassandra’s voice grew louder. “He is not just any other patient, he is our first suspect for the murder of the Divine! And let us not forget what those scars on his arms mean!”

Solas’ soft voice spoke next. “There may be other reasons for those scars, Seeker. It is possible he is not a blood mage.”

“Have you actually seen them, Solas? They are far too… practiced,” she spat the word out, “to be some form of self-mutilation. No, it is far more likely that he is a maleficar.” The elven man merely tipped his head, returning to his observations of the mark. Cassandra addressed the templar “Increase the guard. Inform me when Healer Adan says the prisoner is close to waking.”

“As you say, Seeker,” came the dutiful reply.

As she made to leave, Cassandra glanced at the prisoner one last time. “He has much to answer for,” she said, voice filled with venom. 

 

\---

 

Leliana was focused. Feelings of grief, vengeance, loss and rage simmered in her. But always, above it all, she was focused. She needed to be.

She leaned over the reports that littered the table in her tent, eyes tired but sharp in the dim morning light. She idly noted that the sun’s gaze was now bright enough to illuminate the papers on its own, and extinguished the lit candlestick on her table with gloved fingers. Resources were scarce enough without wasting them.

Returning to the papers, she allowed herself the slightest frown. The news was not good, regardless of which report her eyes landed on. Attempts to hold back the demons were weak at best, and any scouts she sent into the outlying area around the Temple were lucky if they made it back alive, never mind uninjured. Security in Haven was shaky, they still had no method of determining when or where a Rift would open, but for the time being demons could be kept away from the village. The situation outside of the Frostbacks was no less concerning, as word of Rifts appearing farther and farther from the Temple. And then, her eyes fell on the pitifully short report on their prisoner.

The prisoner was an enigma, one she was determined to unravel to its source. The situation was not in her favor, however. Of the survivors of the Conclave, only a scant handful recognized the man. He was a recent addition to the Mage Rebellion, if they were to believed. A strange apostate with a Nevarran accent that had come to them for shelter. They could only guess at his age, but estimates put him at no more than twenty years old, perhaps younger. He had been quiet, declining to speak about his personal history. They had not even managed to pry his last name out of him, only his first. Leliana still tried to track where the mage had come from with the single name she had. Tamaran was not a common name even in Nevarra, but all the same she was unable to find anything definitive. 

Her scouts were stretched thin, her birds exhausted, her contacts skittish. And there were other, more immediate concerns. Still, her mind returned to the identity of their prisoner. Justinia’s killer. No… her suspected killer. Alleged blood magic aside, they did not know enough about him to judge whether or not he was capable of tearing open the Veil or destroying the Temple. She had learned long ago the lesson of making assumptions. 

There were no other suspects, however. 

As Leliana tried to put the young mage out of her mind, a messenger burst into her tent. Not one of hers, judging by the heavy steel plate he wore. Her mouth opened, ready to ask what it was he wanted, but the man was quicker. “The prisoner is awake. Lady Cassandra requests your presence.”

Reports forgotten, she thanked the man with a curt word and brushed past him, intent on reaching the Chantry cells as soon as possible. Anticipation began to rise amongst the grief, vengeance, loss and rage. Justinia’s murderer or not, the man was bound to know something. He was the only survivor of the Conclave. And if he was responsible…

Something quiet and grim settled onto Leliana, familiar as a well-worn cloak. 

 

\---

 

Tamaran was awake. Shortly afterward, he regretted it.

Pushing past the soreness, the cold, and the lingering grip of sleep, he took stock of his surroundings. The sight of the armed and armored men standing around him, swords drawn, immediately jolted him out of his grogginess. They did not move, however, so he could only assume that he was not going to be killed that instant. 

It was then that he noticed his own position, kneeling on the stone floor with his hands bound by iron manacles. Thoughts of how and why he was restrained and surrounded by men with swords arose in his mind, one in particular standing out as the most likely. He almost asked the men watching him why exactly he was chained and guarded, but fear strangled the words in his throat. 

He could not be sure that his assumption was correct. He tried to remember how he had gotten where he was, but his recent memories were alarmingly jumbled. He recalled being at the Mage Rebellion’s encampment near the Temple of Sacred Ashes. A senior mage had asked him to deliver a message to one of the negotiators in the Temple. He remembered going in, searching for the person he was to deliver the scroll to, and then…

...then running, and darkness. And fear. He could not remember the rest. It could very well be that he had been somehow revealed and captured. If that was the case, then all that he could hope for was that his execution was swift. 

Tamaran tried to keep his breathing steady. He had learned early in life that showing fear would only create more reasons to be afraid. 

His hands were shaking ever so slightly. He attempted to stretch them as much as the manacles would allow. A strange mark on his left hand caught his eye, but before he could inspect it further a sudden flash of pain seared through it, accompanied by a blazing green light. He reflexively clenched the hand closed, barely holding back a gasp. The pain subsided after a brief moment, allowing him to stare at the strange mark with trepidation. 

The door out of the prison he was being held in opened, diverting his attention from whatever foreign magic had marked his hand. Two women walked in. One was wearing a thick breastplate and had a sword sheathed at her side, the other was hooded and covered with lighter mail. The armed woman walked directly toward him, her eyes burning with anger, and he had to force himself to not move. She stopped an arm’s length away from him. He could almost feel her glare on him, but he could not bring himself to meet her gaze. Instead, his eyes were drawn to the hooded woman who was quietly speaking with one of his watchers at the far end of the room. He looked away when the woman standing over him began circling, focusing on the stone floor as he waited for whatever came next.

His hands were still shaking. He gripped the rough cloth of his robes in an effort to hide it.

Tamaran could not help but flinch slightly when the armed woman bent down. “What happened at the Conclave?” she demanded. 

The question was unexpected. Was she perhaps trying to ease him into confessing with simple inquiries? He risked glancing at the woman and her facial expression, one of barely-restrained hate, refuted the notion. She was expecting an actual answer. 

He looked away again and swallowed. “I don’t know.” 

“You don’t know?” She sounded disbelieving, her accent indicating she was also Nevarran. She waited a moment, seemingly expecting a response, but he had none to give her. With a short growl she snatched his left hand. “What is this?” she asked, voice poisonous. 

“I don’t know,” he answered again warily.

The woman dropped his hand and abruptly grabbed him by the front of his robes. “Don’t lie to me!” she snarled. “The Temple of Sacred Ashes was destroyed, everyone but you died, and you claim to not know what happened?”

Before he could protest, the hooded woman spoke sharply. “Cassandra!”

The single word from her associate, assumably her name, stopped the woman. She released him with an expression of disgust, and Tamaran immediately tried to edge away from her. The Temple was destroyed? How, when?

Did they think he was responsible? If so, that could explain their treatment of him thus far.

The other woman approached them from the corner she had been occupying before. Her voice was softer, but no less demanding, with a slight Orlesian lilt to it. “Perhaps we should start with what you do know. What is the last thing you remember?”

His brows furrowed. He was unsure of what exactly these women wanted from him, but he knew his best chance of getting out of this situation alive was to tell them everything they wanted to know. “Darkness,” he started hesitantly. “I was running. I don’t remember what I was running from. I think… there was a woman at the top of some stairs.”

“A woman?” the hooded woman repeated, surprise coloring her tone.

“Yes. I needed to… reach her? Follow her? I got close to her, but… I don’t remember anything after that.” Certainly no memories of the destruction of the Temple.

The woman in mail looked at the armed woman, Cassandra. The two seemed to share a silent conversation that he could not guess at, as he kept his eyes on the floor.

Finally, Cassandra turned back to him and knelt down. “We saw the scars on your arms.”

He could not hide how he inhaled sharply at her statement. 

She paused. When she spoke again, it was a firm command. “Answer me honestly. Are you a blood mage?”

His thoughts exploded into a myriad of questions and fears. Cassandra waited silently. Eventually, one line of thought became clear.

They had enough reason to suspect. Even if he lied it was likely they would find out anyway, and he had no idea what they would do to him then. He would prefer it happen now.

“Yes,” he admitted softly.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a bit of a test run for this story. If I'm not immediately bombarded with negative critique, I'll start working on the next chapter. I'm not going in completely half-cocked, I've got plans and ideas for the future of this story, but I'm not going to invest the time if people hate it. So please let me know what you think of this.


End file.
